


A Friend Indeed

by Dizzojay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Curtain Fic, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Purgatory, Schmoop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-30
Updated: 2012-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-23 00:33:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 11,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/616089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dizzojay/pseuds/Dizzojay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>If purgatory took its toll on Dean, his return to the real world has only compounded the problems. He finds help and comfort from a very unexpected source.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

(Sam's POV)

_When that unctuous asshole Dick Roman exploded and I was suddenly left standing alone and bereft in that awful, soulless room, the voice of reason - you know, the one you should listen to but don't want to - told me that Dean and Castiel had both died in the blast. They'd been at blast ground zero, and so had been vaporised; simply zapped out of existence._

_The louder voice, my hunter's voice, the voice that's been there, seen everything, done it all; the voice that tells reason to go screw itself, told me that they were alive and well; it's just that I didn't know where._

_For a while, I was in shock. I barely knew who I was, never mind what I needed to do; my mind was whirling with thoughts of what could have happened to them, but eventually I found the focus to stop assing around and to get with the program – they might both need my help._

_I needed to think, I needed to clear my head and to be away from distraction. It was because of this I eventually headed west and holed up at Rufus' cabin. There I began the laborious task of finding my brother and the angel. I would find them, I promised myself that; and for a time I even believed it._

_The following weeks rolled into months; a whole load of frustrating, infuriating months of painstaking and ultimately fruitless research. I checked out every John Doe who turned up in every hospital in the land, hacked the police networks, canvassed the hunting community worldwide, and spoke to psychics, mediums and every two-bit fortune teller I could find. I searched out any ancient texts that might be able to shed some light; shockingly, reference material relating to exploding leviathans wasn't exactly easy to come by. I spent night after night glued to Google for hours; saw the dawn come up more times than I care to think - it was nice at first but trust me when you're wired sky high on caffeine and exhaustion has shrivelled your eyeballs into pickled walnuts, it's overrated. Even the Crossroads Demon was clueless; and Dean would have pitched a fit if he knew that I had even summoned the damn thing._

_Ten months passed in little more than a blink, after which time I had achieved precisely nothing. I was not one slightest iota closer to discovering what had happened to Dean and Castiel and that goddamn irritating voice of reason, which had been growing louder by the day, finally sat me down and gave me a good talking to._

_Crowley had taunted me about being 'well and truly alone'. As much as it pained me to admit it, as much as I wanted to push the thought to the back of my mind and spit at the very notion, I was starting to believe him._

_I wasn't convinced that Dean was dead. If he had been there were dozens of ways in which we could contact each other, especially as I've no reason to believe that as a spirit he'd be any less loud and obnoxious than he was as a man. I couldn't believe that he would let me endure ten months of worry and despair without making some kind of contact, but every damned séance I conducted gave me nothing but soul-destroying silence._

_Then again, I've no reason to believe he's alive. I know a good hunter can remain hidden from the outside world if he wants to, but again, I can't and won't believe that Dean is out there, alive and well but not getting in touch and allowing me to worry myself into neuroses about him._

_Then of course there was Castiel. I know angels can kill other angels (and apparently often do), but aside from that, is there any other way they can die? As powerful as it may be, I wouldn't have thought that an exploding leviathan would have the juice to take one of them out. Jimmy Novak, Castiel's meatsuit, maybe - but not Cas himself._

_And if they're not alive, and they're not dead, then where, or what, the hell are they?_

_This is where I run out of options; I've explored every avenue and for my trouble come up with a whole load of dead ends. The trail's gone cold, and I can't begin to know what to do to warm it up._

_So, finally … here's where my train of thought derails._

xxxxx

_With no clues and no idea of what to do next, I had to decide where to go from here. It was the hardest decision I'd ever had to make._

_I knew that Dean would hate for me to be sitting here with my thumb up my ass, helpless and clueless and wasting my life chasing his memory, but how could I just give up on him?_

_Then again, there's no way I could carry on hunting without Dean. The hunting life reeks of him. Reminders of him are everywhere; his gruff voice stumbling over the latin incantations, his thumbprints on a flask of holy water, his surprisingly neat handwritten notes in the margins of a bible – complete with spelling mistakes and imaginatively random apostrophe use. It tears me to pieces every time I see it._

_I won't dishonour Dean by moping and brooding my life away; I'll do what I'd almost managed to do before, and walk away from the life. It's just too painful to continue. I'll vanish, just as Dean has done; I'll ditch contact with the hunting fraternity and become Sam Winchester, the civilian. Hopefully I can do something worthwhile with my life – Dean would like that._

_I briefly considered ditching the Impala too; right now the sight of her is like a knife right through my heart but no, that's one thing I couldn't do. She is as much a part of Dean as he is of her. I can sense him in every rivet; every bolt. It'd be just about the worst thing I could do to Dean._

_In years to come I hope I'll once again be able to look on her with fondness, but at the moment I can't think that far ahead._

_I can't see beyond tomorrow._

xxxxx

Loading everything he owned into the Impala's trunk, Sam hesitated briefly beside the car, inhaling deeply of the loamy fragrance of early Fall around him. He glanced upwards as a fresh breeze rustled through the forest, and took a last long look at the amber polka-dots of Maple and Linden standing out in stark relief against a sea of evergreen before ducking into her drivers' seat and pulling the door closed.

He scraped a shaky hand through his hair and pulled away without a backward glance.

It would be two months before the cabin was occupied again.

xxxxx


	2. Chapter 2

A heavy fog drifted lazily around the dense wooded foothills, painting an oppressive shadow across the valley. Beneath it the mossy ground huddled miserably under a carpet of leaf-fall and pine needles in the damp November chill.

The only sign of movement in the dismal landscape was a hare loping quietly between the roots of the trees, his thick coat, flecked with winter's white, ruffled high against the breeze as he nosed the ground, eagerly searching out any tasty roots or lingering foliage buried beneath the mass of rotting leaves and other unappetising detritus of Fall's slim pickings.

So far, his industrious efforts hadn't amounted to much.

Suddenly he froze, ears pricking. Sitting up on his strong haunches, his nose twitched furiously as he stared into the murky distance.

No-one except the bemused hare saw a brilliant flash of light burst between the trees, and no-one but him saw two unco-ordinated figures tumble heavily through the blinding flash and crumple into a heap onto the forest floor.

The hare's pebble-round brown eyes stared for a moment deep into a pair of glazed, vivid-blue eyes laying only inches from its own before its instinct took over and it turned tail, bounding pell-mell into the distance leaving a fluttering rain of dead leaves in its wake.

xxxxx

Castiel was laying dazed amidst the deadfall on the deathly cold ground, watching the little creature scrambling away from them as fast as its legs would carry it, when he became aware of a hoarse groan behind him, and rolled laboriously over to attend to the source of the groan.

Purgatory was not just a place, it was a state of being. It was a state of being so soulless and desolate that it killed every facet of individuality and free will in its prisoners; every sense, every skill and every power whether spiritual, physical or supernatural were stripped away as deftly and efficiently as if Alastair himself had been wielding the razor, until all that was left was naked instinct. The oldest and purest instinct of them all – kill or be killed.

The angel watched intently as Dean struggled to heave himself up into something like a sitting position. The hunter was unkempt, bleeding and filthy. He was unhealthily lean; had, for some time, been bearing a limp which he refused to discuss, and his shredded T shirt gave a good indication of the degree of claw damage lurking underneath it. Unsure of whether to help, the angel's hand hovered uneasily in mid-air waiting in case it was called into service.

One whole year of fighting for survival had been hard on Dean. Physically, he was broken and beaten; mentally he was walking a knife edge.

Looking down at his formerly white shirt, heavily soiled with blood and dirt, his tattered trenchcoat and his bloodied, unshaven face, Castiel reflected that he hadn't fared much better. The grace of an angel counted for exactly squat in Purgatory.

"We should move," Castiel whispered urgently to Dean; "it is too cold to stay here," he added.

"Where're we?" Dean mumbled breathlessly, scraping shaking fingers through the years' growth of matted hair that raggedly framed his bloodstreaked face.

Castiel stood slowly, offering a hand to help Dean up, and scanned their surroundings at length through the dreary early evening gloom.

"We are between some mountains," he eventually announced triumphantly.

"Hell, thanks, Captain Obvious," Dean grunted, rolling his eyes and coughing wetly as he leaned heavily on the angel. He blinked to restore his equilibrium which had shifted dramatically as he stood. "Rufus' cabin," he spluttered; "gotta get to Rufus' cabin, Sam'll be there."

Castiel discreetly clung to Dean who had begun to subside again; "we do not know where we are; is it not wise to find somewhere close to rest and shelter first, then travel?"

"Rufus' cabin," Dean repeated, giving every indication he hadn't heard a word the angel had said; "you c'n zap us there."

Lowering his eyes, Castiel gnawed his lip in shame. "I cannot," he muttered in the smallest voice he could muster.

Dean looked up, a spark of panic animating his heavy-lidded eyes at the angel's last words. "What'dy mean you can't?"

Castiel was becoming aware that Dean was shivering in the bone-numbing chill that surrounded them, and hint of urgency crept into his voice.

"My grace is diminished," Castiel explained glumly; "Purgatory has stifled my powers. It will return in time but for now we are …"

Dean stared wide-eyed at the dejected angel; "freakin' screwed," he interrupted.

Desperate to be of some use, Castiel tried again; "Dean, you must get out of the cold, we must find somewhere to shelter."

"Rufus' cabin," Dean repeated again bluntly shrugging off Castiel's supporting arm and limping heavily off down the track without waiting for the angel to follow.

Castiel sighed; clearly their destination, however far it may be, was non-negotiable. He pulled his threadbare trenchcoat tightly around him and began to slowly trudge through the forest after Dean.

xxxxx

They had only been walking a few minutes when Castiel saw Dean pause up ahead of him, his attention suddenly fixed on something that the angel couldn't see through the darkening twilight. As he caught up, he realised what Dean was looking at; a pick-up parked beside a weathered wooden sign which pointed to a campsite a mile away down a gravel track. Dean turned to Castiel with a weary smile and clapped him on the shoulder. "There's our transport," he snorted; "we c'n get on the road, and once we see some roadsigns we'll get an idea of how far we've got to go."

Castiel cocked his head curiously; "are you going to steal that vehicle?"

Dean sighed; he was way too tired for this crap. Crouching on his haunches beside the driver's door, he glanced up over the hood and instantly saw that Castiel was wearing that familiar constipated frown that always sprouted to indicate his holy angelic disapproval of one of Dean's many less than philanthropic schemes. "Our need's greater than theirs," he replied with a shrug as he went back to his work.

The frown deepened; and Dean could feel it boring into his back.

"Cas' look at us;" he groaned, his ice-cold fingers working shakily as he slid his knife down between the truck's window and door panel; "we've got no cash, no phones; we're covered in blood and crap, we're filthy and torn up, we've got a pair of freakin' skeevy, Robinson Crusoe lice-infested beards, and we – well at least, I – stink something friggin' wicked. We can hardly catch a bus like this."

He gave a little grunt of satisfaction as the lock clicked, allowing him to open the door.

"C'mon," he coaxed the reluctant angel; "we won't damage it. We'll leave it somewhere safe an' the owner'll get it back within a week – tol' you, Sam's at the cabin and he's good at organising stuff like that; think of it like a low-cost rental."

Castiel's shoulders slumped in defeat and he hesitantly climbed into the cabin beside Dean, watching him hunch over as he began to extract the necessary wires from under the steering column with stiff, trembling fingers.

"And what of the owner? Where is he?" Castiel asked, his face arranged into an expression that screamed 'sulk', as if sitting in a stolen car was making him dirtier than he already was.

"I don't know," Dean snorted irritably, not taking his eyes away from the sparking wires between his fingertips; "there's a sign for a campsite a mile up that track, he might've gone to check in, Maybe he's walking his dog, maybe he's takin' a piss in the woods. Whatever, he ain't here and that's what's important."

A brief silence settled over the car.

"Quit lookin' at me like that," Dean grunted without glancing up from his work.

xxxxx

The discovery that they had turned up in Maine had not been a welcome one. "How the freakin' hell is it that we get puked out of purgatory about as friggin' far from Montana as it's possible to be without fallin' in the goddamn Atlantic…" Dean's ranting had stretched well into their second day of driving, and Castiel was missing the shaky, subdued Dean that had first emerged from Purgatory just a little bit.

Despite Dean's vocal protestations, Castiel was all too aware that the hunter was running on empty; he knew that only an iron will and a stubborn streak a mile wide that had seen him through the ordeals of purgatory together with the incentive of a reunion with Sam were all that was keeping him from caving into the crushing weakness and fatigue that he was trying so hard and failing dismally to hide.

Their journey stretched into five days; five long, tortuous days travelling under cover of darkness in a succession of 'borrowed' vehicles, abandoning them as they ran empty, or siphoning fuel whenever the opportunity presented itself.

Sleeping fitfully through the hours of daylight, Dean was forced to subsist on whatever food he could find, usually by less than honest means, and through the whole nighmare, all Castiel could do was sit helplessly, trying hard not to reflect on what would doubtless be an eternity of disgraced exile from the heavenly host for not smiting seven shades of crap out of this compulsive breaker of the eighth commandment beside him.

xxxxx

As the two men stumbled into the clearing around Rufus' cabin, having dumped their last ride a mile away, Castiel was practically holding Dean on his feet.

The short walk felt like a marathon, but Dean's euphoria on reaching their destination briefly overwhelmed his hunger, his crushing fatigue, the pain from a multitude of bites and scratches he had accumulated during his time in purgatory including the long neglected bite wound in his thigh that he had single-mindedly failed to mention to Castiel and that wasn't, in the slightest bit infected at all.

It was as they stepped onto the cabin's rickety doorstep, and realised that the place was unoccupied and deserted that the brief wave of euphoria faded.

As it faded, the minimal trace of colour in Dean's gaunt face, drained along with it.

xxxxx


	3. Chapter 3

Picking the door lock with a rusting nail plucked from the cabin's weathered steps proved to be a laborious and frustrating process; Dean's trembling hands and light-headed disorientation conspiring against him repeatedly until he felt inclined to smash the door down with his head instead. Eventually, however, through a combination of his own expletive-strewn perseverance and Castiel's calm encouragement, the lock clicked and the door swung open with a pained creak.

Together, the two figures stepped cautiously into the unlit cabin, pausing to scan their surroundings.

It became clear very quickly that Sam wasn't merely out and about on a grocery run or something equally as temporary as Dean had been hoping. On the contrary, there were no signs of recent occupation at all; no smells of coffee, dirty boots or just life in general; no dishes on the drainer, no personal effects lying around. All that greeted the two despondent figures was cold, impersonal emptiness.

Throwing a sideways glance, Castiel watched with unspoken concern as Dean seemed to physically diminish along with the discovery.

He decided distraction was the order of the day; "Dean, you must keep warm; we should light a fire."

Dean nodded absently; "he's been here – I know he has; can you sense him at all?" he asked, disregarding everything the angel had just said; "fire up your angel radar; Cas – see if you can find him."

Castiel shook his head sadly; "my powers are still diminished, but even if they were not, he is shielded from me because of the enochian sigils I carved onto his ribs," he shrugged helplessly; "we will need to find him the traditional way."

A brief silence fell between them, before Castiel spoke up again, his friend's wellbeing at the forefront of his mind; "we need to relax and think."

"Screw relaxing and thinking," snapped Dean; "he could be in trouble."

Castiel slowly scanned the room; "the cabin appears tidy and well ordered," he mused; "there are no signs of a struggle or that he was forced to leave against his will, so I do not believe Sam is in trouble."

Glancing around, Dean nodded, conceding the undeniable logic in the angel's words. When Rufus had been here, the place was a tip, a study in chaos and neglect. Now, however, it exhibited every sign of Sam's OCD-level tidiness, from the clean mugs lined up in the cupboard, handles all pointing the same way, to the dusty books on the shelves arranged in order of size.

Dean wished he could have been reassured by Castiel's calm words, but he still found himself pacing back and forth like a caged animal. Standing stock-still in the centre of the room, Castiel watched helplessly, his head swinging back and forth like some kind of bemused tennis spectator.

Dean eventually stilled and tugged his fingers though the matted mess of hair hanging into his face. "Goin' to tidy up Cas'," he grunted and headed wearily toward the bathroom. The slam of the door behind him was all the angel needed to know about his mood.

xxxxx

A long five minutes had passed and having managed to light an, albeit rather paltry, fire in the hearth courtesy of Rufus' ancient stock of Readers Digest magazines, Castiel was counting spoons in the kitchen drawer. He didn't actually know why he was counting spoons, but he felt compelled to do something constructive and this seemed as worthwhile as anything.

He paused at four when he heard an untidy thud from behind the closed bathroom door.

Putting down the spoons next to a pile of forks already counted (there were eight), he cautiously approached the door.

"Dean, do you require help?"

Holding his breath, he waited for an answer; an answer that never came.

He tried again. This time the question was louder, more of a command.

"Dean, answer me."

When all he received for his trouble was another long silence, Castiel needed no prompting to fling the door open and stride into the cramped room.

What he found was Dean collapsed, unconscious, on the floor in front of an overflowing basin.

xxxxx

Dean's eyes fluttered open. A wave of dizziness washed over him, and he closed them again. He could hear a voice a million miles above him repeating his name, and feel a cool, comforting hand on his forehead. The voice and the hand had to belong to Sam, of that he had no doubt. Buoyed by that knowledge, he struggled to open his eyes again; anxious to see his brother's face.

The first thing that his woolly mind ascertained was that he was partly covered with a threadbare, musty-smelling blanket and was lying on the couch, nestled back against a limp, grey pillow. Although, the couch was sagging lumpily and had a stray spring which seemed to have taken up permanent residence in the small of his back, he was snug and comfortable; Castiel's little fire was crackling merrily in the soot-blackened hearth and spreading a soothing warmth across the room. He had absolutely no desire to move.

That was until his next realisation; the realisation that the soothing voice and the gentle hand which slipped softly down the side of his head to cradle his neck belonged to Castiel who sat perched beside Dean's hip on the edge of the couch; enquiring blue eyes fixed intently on the sick hunter's face.

Sam was nowhere to be seen.

xxxxx

"You must rest, Dean." Castiel's concern was clear as he pressed a flat palm to Dean's chest, preventing his attempt to sit up.

As Dean's vision cleared, his unfocussed eyes swept the length of his reclining body and he realised that he looked and felt cleaner than he had for a very long time; much cleaner. His spirits briefly lifted until he realised that the reason why he could see that he was much cleaner was that he had been stripped down to his boxers.

"What the hell Cas?" he snapped; pulling the blanket up to his chin, exposing his bare legs below the knees.

Calmly, Castiel eased the blanket from Dean's shaking grip and folded it back down at his waist. As Dean watched it recede, he noticed a bowl of soapy water and a folded towel at the angel's feet.

"You must rest Dean," the angel repeated solemnly; "you fainted."

Dean blinked and cleared this throat self-consciously. "I don' faint," he shook his head; "I – uh – blacked out."

"It is a question of definitions," Castiel sighed heavily; "you lost consciousness. You lost consciousness because you are exhausted, starving and … because of this ..."

Whipping the blanket back, Castiel revealed the grotesque swollen bite on Dean's bare thigh.

"The hell Cas?" Dean squawked, wrestling the blanket back over his legs; "give a man some freakin' privacy huh?"

Castiel canted his head as he pondered on Dean's apparent outrage; "Dean, you have no cause to be shy," he reassured; "I am very familiar with the anatomy of the human male."

Somehow the angel's heartfelt reassurance didn't go any way towards calming the furious blush that had sprouted across Dean's formerly pallid cheeks.  
"Remember, I have a male vessel," Castiel continued enthusiastically; "and I am intimately acquainted with all of hi …"

Dean's eyes scrunched closed in queasy panic and he abruptly raised a hand in a gesture that even Castiel recognised as 'shut your freakin' piehole.'

"I don't care what parts of Jimmy's you're intimately friggin' acquainted with," Dean gasped "jus' so long as you don't expect to get intimately acquainted with mine!"

The angel sat back and huffed out a disappointed sigh.

This wasn't going quite as well as he'd hoped.

xxxxx

It had taken his dulled senses a while, but it was at that moment that Dean realised that the downcast face which was quietly regarding him was clean shaven. Not only that, but the mass of unruly black curls that had been framing Castiel's face were shorn. The bristly black remnants of his – Jimmy's – hair were now comically spiky and somewhat lop-sided, but a great improvement on what he'd brought back from purgatory nonetheless.

Reaching up to his own scalp, Dean suddenly realised that the filthy, matted thatch that he had been sporting had also gone, to be replaced with something neat and very short; little more than a buzz-cut if the velvety stubble beneath his fingertips was anything to go by. Judging by the bald patch behind his ear, the angel's sterling work had been carried out with far more compassion than skill, but that was fine by him.

Castiel could hear the question on the hunter's lips.

"When you fai …" he hesitated, checking himself; "… blacked out, I wanted to be of use while I waited for you to come round, so I decided to cut your hair, then I cut mine," Castiel shrugged; "then you were still unconscious, so I undressed you and washed you."

Castiel trailed off with a slight shrug, looking at his friend apologetically.

Dean swallowed hard, rubbing the back of a hand over his clammily warm forehead, "uh, yeah ... thanks Cas; how long was I out?"

Castiel glanced at the dust-coated clock on the wall behind them; "around fifteen minutes," he replied quietly.

Dean's eyes widened in awe; "fifteen minutes? You did all that in fifteen minutes?"

If he didn't know better, he would have been prepared to swear a soft blush coloured the angel's cheeks. "no - I also looked for something that I could use to treat the wound on your leg," Castiel added; "I found nothing, but I did find these;" he held up a crumpled packet containing two disposable razors, "I do not know whether these were Rufus' or Sam's but they were unused, and there was some soap in the bathroom so I shaved my face while I considered what to do next."

Dean suddenly noticed that the angel's face was peppered with tiny nicks, and a wry smile tugged at his lips.

A doleful expression crossed the angel's face as he rubbed his shredded chin. "It is more difficult than it appears."

xxxxx


	4. Chapter 4

• _Blue Mountain Animal Rescue Centre_

 

"That's the rabbits cleaned out, the cats' litter boxes changed; I need to feed old Rio out there in the stables, then I can go and see my girl …"

A sharp breeze ruffled Sam's hair as he strode across the yard, thinking aloud to himself. As he reached the yard's far end, he absently wiped his dirty hands on his overalls, and filled the bucket he carried with fresh water from the tap on the wall.

As he worked, a large, grey-muzzled head watched him inquisitively from over a stable door.

"Here y'go big guy," he smiled as he nudged the stable door open and carried the splashing bucket into the dark space behind it; his every move watched by the gentle liquid eyes of Rio, an elderly chestnut quarterhorse.

Sam watched as Rio lowered his head and began to drink eagerly; his ears pricking while Sam talked to him.

"I've got a bucket of chaff for you too, old boy," Sam smiled, pulling another bucket toward him and ruffling the old horse's sparse forelock; "you know, that dry, grainy crap that looks like sawdust they make me give you because it's good for you."

He leaned in toward the horse as if he had an important secret to share; "but, I tell you what, because you're my best old boy, I whipped something special from the staffroom for you." He grinned as he produced a shiny red apple from the pocket of his overall; "now don't you go rattin' on me to the boss, because she'll kick my ass out of here – I'm still on trial period."

Rio huffed, hot, damp breath into Sam's face and whittered softly, butting Sam's shoulder gently as his lip curled eagerly toward the apple.

"Oh no," Sam chuckled; "I'm cuttin' it up for you first – I know what a greedy great lump you are. You'll swallow the damn thing whole, then choke to death on me an' that'll do my trial period a whole lot of good!"

Leaving Rio contentedly munching his chaff, complete with added contraband, Sam quietly locked the stable door behind him, and picked up his bucket, swiftly crossing the yard to the kennels.

The kennel block had a new resident, and Sam couldn't wait to see her.

xxxxx

It had been a chance stopoff at a small, remote diner on the outskirts of the tiny, unremarkable town of Blue Mountain that had earned Sam this job. That terrible journey from Rufus' cabin, during which all Sam had done was torture himself about his decision to walk away from the life and the fruitless hunt for Dean, had drained him more than he could have imagined, and the little diner had been an extremely welcome sight after countless soul-destroying hours of driving.

Inside, it was warm and clean and the service was efficiently pleasant.

Desperate for comfort food, he'd ordered the lasagne, the garlic bread and a pint of orange juice, visited the mens room, then got accosted on the way back to his table by two large, slobbering, brown-eyed bundles of black fur.

As he apologised profusely for his dogs' invasion of his customer's personal space, the Diner's manager, a stout, bald man with a friendly smile, hadn't missed how warmly Sam had greeted his two errant dogs.

That's when the two men had got talking, and shortly afterwards, Sam had felt reassured enough by the man, who seemed as warm and wholesome as his menu, to ask him if he had any work going.

"I don't, son," the man began apologetically, "but my wife runs the animal rescue centre the other side of town. Her only full time member of staff left last week to have a baby; an' she's lookin' for a replacement;" he explained; "someone fit, who's not afraid of hard work, and above all, someone who cares about animals." He regarded Sam thoughtfully before continuing, "I may be making rash assumptions, but I'm guessing you fit all three of those conditions. You interested?"

Interested? It sounded like Sam's dream job.

xxxxx

As he quietly closed the door to the kennels behind him, his mind flitted briefly back to Dean. He might not be hunting, but at least he was doing something worthwhile, and he was sure Dean would have approved.

He paused for a moment. Dean wasn't a small man, but he was no giant either. Despite that, he had a huge presence, and the world seemed a much larger, lonelier place without him.

But now Sam had the comfort of a lost soul just like him. Sam had found Heidi.

Heidi was a young German Shepherd dog, with warm caramel eyes that brimmed with bright intelligence. Her rich, nutbrown coat was flecked with the black and silver typical of the breed. And she bore the rangey, spidery build of an adolescent who had done plenty of growing up, but hadn't yet begun to grow out; she looked like she was made entirely of ribs. And Sam adored her.

She had arrived at the shelter a week after Sam had joined, having been abandoned by a family who had left her alone and unstimulated for ten hours a day, five days a week, and then wondered why she had eaten all their soft furnishings.

The two had bonded within hours.

On spotting Sam lurking in the doorway, Heidi's tail wagged itself into a blur, and she yipped happily, climbing the bars to get a closer look at the love of her life

"Hey, how's my beautiful girl?" Sam sing-songed, dropping to his knees and laughing as forty pounds of dog torpedo launched itself at him, coating his face in wet kisses.

"hey girl, you get prettier every day – can't wait 'til tomorrow," he spluttered, trying and failing to escape her enthusiastic tongue.

Heidi rolled over, shivering with excited glee, as Sam pulled her back toward him and wrapped her in a warm hug, playfully teasing her with a squeaky ball.

As he stared over the top of the dog's head, his smile began to fade. He loved Heidi, but she wasn't Dean. It was ridiculous to the point of insulting to even suggest that she could replace Dean in Sam's affections; but she was alone and frightened, just like him; and together Sam hoped they could, in some small way, heal the holes in each other's broken hearts.

He hoped that caring for Heidi would help him accept that Dean was gone; would give a purpose to his currently empty life. That it would stop him from spending every night alone in a skeevy motel room, scanning the obituaries, and telling himself that it was just out of interested curiosity and was nothing at all to do with wondering whether he would find Dean's name there.

xxxxx

Dean lay back on the couch, and allowed Castiel to pull the blanket back over him. It was like the punchline to a bad joke - he'd just been shaved by an angel.

At first Dean had protested vocally against Castiel's offer to help with shaving him, especially after the hapless angel had just minced his own face attempting to do just the same thing; but after wrestling the razor out of Castiel's hand, and then promptly collapsing in an exhausted, unco-ordinated heap halfway to the bathroom, he had reluctantly given in to the inevitable and ended up sprawled helplessly on the couch, staring up nervously as Castiel loomed over him, razor in hand.

"This will take only a moment," Castiel reassured, slathering Dean's face with warm soap; "you will feel better afterwards."

"Jus' be freakin' careful; this face is too darn precious to be skinned by your mutton paws," Dean grumbled, sucking in a deep breath as he felt the first sweep of the razor along his jawline, then the second.

He could feel the thick matted beard falling away under the angel's careful hand and although he hated to admit it, it felt good. Real good.

Peering out from under partly closed lids, he almost smiled when he saw the angel gnawing on his bottom lip, a mask of intense concentration frozen across his face as he worked.

Dean lay back and tried to relax under Castiel's careful ministrations, but every time he did, his thoughts turned to Sam, or rather, to Sam's absence.

Where was he?

All that had kept Dean going through his year-long ordeal in purgatory was the thought of returning to Sam, of finding out that his brother was safe and well. Dean had been utterly convinced that Rufus' cabin would be the bolt-hole Sam would come back to; so certain, he hadn't even considered a scenario in which Sam wouldn't be there. Finding the place empty had been a blow worthy of any of the monsters he had battled in purgatory.

Sucking in a deep breath, Dean shuddered as the blade moved smoothly down the side of his neck, dragging with it a bead of cool, soapy water which trickled down, pooling above his collarbone.

His jaw clenched in stubborn resolve. Other hunters would know where Sam is; he would have kept in touch with them. In fact he was probably on a job with a couple of them right now, even as Dean lay here like a goddamn dying swan with Sweeney freakin' Todd giving him the short back and sides, that's exactly where Sam would be.

The possibility that he might not find Sam was just too horrible to contemplate and he sucked in a deep breath as he felt his heart begin to race.

Grimacing as the heated, inflamed wound in his thigh began to throb in line with his racing heart, he felt Castiel swiftly draw back the razor, resuming his work only when he was satisfied that Dean had stilled.

Tomorrow; Dean scolded himself in his mind. Tonight he would get the rest that his stupid, broken, exhausted ass obviously needed, then tomorrow he would begin work on finding his brother. Sure, he was in the middle of nowhere with no phone, no internet and only a broken-down angel for company, but a Winchester's middle name was 'resourceful'. He would work out something.

He had to.

Tomorrow would be the day he would hear Sam's voice.

xxxxx


	5. Chapter 5

A grey dawn light was filtering through the grimy windows when Dean first pried his eyes open after a surprisingly restful night's sleep on Rufus' old couch. He slowly emerged from the tightly wound burrow of blankets that had formed around him, arching into a long, stiff stretch, and letting out a wide yawn which gradually tailed off into a harsh coughing fit.

"Cas?" he croaked, voice still thick with sleep.

He was met with nothing but silence.

"Cas?" He tried again; a little louder this time, clearer.

Any answer was still noticeably absent.

With a deep sigh, he heaved himself upright into a sitting position and cringed as his warm feet emerged from under the blanket into the naked chill of morning

After a brief pause to allow a wave of light-headed dizziness to pass, he limped barefoot across to the kitchen, trying to ignore the wound in his thigh as it burned and pinched along with the abused muscle moving beneath it, and hesitated as he found a scribbled note on the table.

'Gone to store,' it stated simply.

Dean stared at the note and the first thought that crossed his mind was that he was looking at the handwriting of an angel. He'd never really thought about angels needing to write before; what the heck did they have to write about in heaven? He'd always figured they'd communicate by some kind of harp music or flappy wing signals or angelic mind-meld or something far more cool than just 'writing', but here it was, and surprisingly neat it was too.

His second thought was 'what freakin' store?' Rufus' cabin was stuck slap in the middle of a forest; the ass end of nowhere would be a busy metropolis by comparison.

Sighing deeply, Dean poured himself a glass of water, hesitating as a throbbing ache radiated through his chest, momentarily stealing his breath.

xxxxx

The hazy mid-day sun was barely peeking over the canopy of the forest when the door suddenly swung open and Castiel stepped through, stamping an accumulation of mud and leaf mulch from his shoes.

"Where the hell have you been?" Dean gasped in impatient relief.

"I have been to the store," Castiel replied calmly; "I left before dawn to be there early; did you not see my note?"

"Yeah, I saw your note – but what freakin' store? We're in the middle of nowhere," he paused for a moment; "hey, you got your mojo back? Did you zap yourself there?"

The angel shook his head hesitantly; "sadly no," he replied; "but there is a small town fifteen miles from here; I walked there." He lifted up four plastic bags stuffed with groceries, which Dean had somehow failed to notice.

Dean blinked.

"You walked there?"

Castiel nodded; "I do not feel fatigue; it was necessary," he stated simply; "you need food and ..." his eye travelled toward Dean's leg; "... you need medicine."

Dean's eyes followed Castiel's gaze down to his bloodstained jeans.

"Oh, and you may need this for when you try to locate Sam." Rummaging in one of the bags, he pulled out a box containing a simple, pay-as-you-go cellphone, and handed it to Dean.

Dean's jaw dropped into an astounded gape as he took the box. Castiel, meanwhile, stood quietly, hands hanging limply at his sides, gazing back at his friend with those unfathomable blue eyes. A faint quirk of a smile played across his otherwise neutral expression as if traipsing thirty miles through dense forest in sub-zero temperatures at the ass-crack of dawn to buy groceries was the most normal, well-adjusted thing in the world to do.

"Not that I don't appreciate it, Cas," Dean spluttered; "but how the heck did you get this stuff - did you steal it? I mean, hell, I know I'm a bad influence an' all, but …"

Castiel shook his head.

"There was no requirement for me to commit a felony, Dean," he announced; " I found some of Rufus' personal effects in his bathroom;" gold jewellery and a gold watch, and as it is clear that he has no further need for them, I do not believe he would have objected to me selling them to the jewellery store in that town in order to support another hunter."

Dean's eyes widened; "all that bling was real?"

"It was real."

"How d'y know?" Dean asked curiously; "What if you'd got all the way to the town and found it was a load of crap worth nothing?"

"Gold is the purest substance on earth, Dean; an angel can sense its purity without difficulty."

Dean grinned as he picked up two of the bags and promptly dropped them, watching as three stray oranges and a can of tomato soup rolled across the floor.

"These weigh a freakin' ton," he gasped, crouching down to examine the contents. It soon became obvious why; the straining bags were stuffed full of fruit, vegetables, juice, bread, potatoes and canned goods; there was even a jar of coffee and some candy.

Dean continued fishing around in the bags and picked out some antiseptic cream, boxes of Tylenol and aspirins, a pack of tissues, a toothbrush and a tube of toothpaste. He grinned and made a mental note to take back everything he'd ever said about angels being dicks with wings. This one; this one right here, was awesome in every totally un-dickish way possible. He glanced up to thank Castiel, just in time to find him gone and to hear the door click shut.

Limping over to the door, he huffed out pained grunts with every laboured step, and pulled the it open, peering round the weathered paintwork of the doorframe. "Hey Cas, where the hell are you goin' now?"

"I should cut some more firewood, it is very cold."

Standing in the doorway shivering; Dean regarded the silvery dusting of frost that still coated the forest around him, even though the sun had been up for over four hours; he watched his shuddering breath dissipate into coiling tendrils of vapour; he felt the tip of his nose and his ears begin to burn in the icy bite of the still, clean air; and he resisted with all his might the urge to say, 'no shit Sherlock!'

xxxxx

Leaving Castiel to his labours, Dean closed the door behind him and snatched up the little phone that Castiel had bought. Seriously, the guy was awesome; okay, he was an ever-so-slightly weird and endearingly geeky little sucker with an angelic stick up his ass; but freakin' awesome all the same.

Eagerly, Dean pulled the phone out of its box, and set it charging.

The booklet recommended that the battery be charged for four hours before use. Dean lasted five minutes.

The first number that he punched into the tiny silver keypad was Sam's; he knew it off by heart, even after this whole terrible year, and as he sat back at the cabin's rickety little table, his heart pounded in anticipation at the thought of hearing Sam's voice.

What he actually heard was a soulless electronic drawl telling him this number was no longer in use, and his heart sank; his spirit nosediving with it.

Dialling a second number, that of another phone that Sam had used occasionally, Dean bit his lip in nervous anticipation. Again, an electronic voice told him that he was wasting his time.

xxxxx

When Castiel returned to the cabin, arms full of neatly-cut logs, he nudged the door open with his elbow, and instantly froze.

The despondent figure that sat slumped at the table, holding the new phone in a white-knuckled grip was a shadow of the grateful, positive man who had greeted him earlier.

After Dean's abortive calls to Sam, calls to every hunter listed in Rufus' journal had gleaned absolutely nothing.

'He's given up the life'; 'reckon he's moved abroad'; heard he'd died months ago'; ' ain't heard from him in an age' …

There didn't appear to be a single hunter on Planet Earth who knew anything about Sam, even whether he was dead or alive. Leaving no clues or word of his whereabouts, he'd ditched his phone, ditched all his aliases and, it seems, ditched the life; even the Impala had false plates so Dean couldn't even track him that way.

No brother, and no baby. Dean had returned from purgatory and found himself in hell.

His leg began to throb again.

xxxxx


	6. Chapter 6

_Three weeks later_

Sam smiled, enthusiastically shaking the man's hand as he handed over a wad of bills; more than a whole weeks' wages as a deposit on the rent for the apartment they both stood in.

It was the tiniest little apartment he'd ever seen, barely bigger than some of the motel rooms he and Dean used to frequent. It consisted of a pleasantly airy and well-lit main room which served as both a sleeping and living area, a small, neat galley kitchen and a bathroom he could barely turn around in. However, it was much better than the skeevy hotel room he'd been crashing in up until then; the only thing he'd been able afford on his last remaining forged credit card. The little apartment was clean, well-kept and best of all, his future landlord allowed dogs. Sam loved it on sight.

Now that he was earning an honest wage, Sam and Heidi were going to live a respectable life together, no more sneaking around pretending to be who he wasn't, no more fake credit cards. His cosy little space would be their home; it would be the first step on the long path to contentment for both of them.

xxxxx

In the time since their desperate escape from purgatory, Castiel had taken to home-making better than anyone could have imagined, and no-one was more amazed than he was. An angel of the lord washing dishes, boiling potatoes, sweeping the floor, and cleaning the windows until they gleamed – even right in the corners, wasn't something they preached from the pulpit, and Castiel didn't care; he had gained immense comfort and satisfaction from being so useful and constructive – and taking care of his friend.

He was aware it was less than a week to Christmas, and in the festive spirit, he had been making regular trips into the forest to find holly and mistletoe which was now festooned around the cabin bringing a distinctly seasonal feel to the place; just another of many continuing efforts on the angel's part to raise Dean's spirits.

Glancing across at the sleeping hunter, he sighed sadly. Dean had spent the best part of every day since Castiel's first trip into the town trying again and again to fathom ways to find his brother.

Castiel's little cellphone had been Dean's lifeline to the outside world, particularly as his injured leg made it impossible for him to join Castiel on any of his marathon walks into town. It allowed him to make dozens of increasingly frantic but abortive calls to anyone he thought may be able to help; the police, hospitals, hostels, even prisons and mental institutions weren't ruled out. Dean had astounded Castiel in his inventiveness; and at first they both believed that his dogged determination couldn't help but track Sam down.

However, as time passed, and one by one every avenue that Dean explored was cut off, the angel could only stand by helplessly and watch as his friend whose initial optimism at finding his brother had been so infectious, had sunk into despondent despair, until all that was left was a sickly, pale shadow of the man who had so bravely fought his and Castiel's way out of purgatory.

xxxxx

There were two things Castiel was becoming aware of.

The first was that, away from the toxic taint of purgatory, his powers were, little by little, strengthening. This made his regular trips into town to obtain food with the dwindling supply of cash from Rufus' valuables far less labour-intensive than they had been when he had to walk the thirty mile round trip. He also seemed to be buying top up credit for Dean's cellphone rather a lot, so the return of his ability to apparate was extremely welcome.

The revival of his grace also meant that he had begun to be able to read Dean's thoughts and feelings far more clearly, and that wasn't giving him quite so much pleasure.

This led him to the second thing he was aware of. The medicine and antiseptics he had bought for Dean were simply too little too late. The infection in his leg had spread, settling on his chest, and even as he stood on the other side of the room, filling a bowl with tepid water, Castiel could hear the hunter's gluey, laboured breathing.

Clutching the bowl tightly, Castiel walked across the room and lowered himself carefully onto the side of the couch where Dean lay, flushed and feverish, fidgeting fretfully in the grip of a disturbed and dreamless sleep. The angel's sad eyes drifted across to the table and the bowl of now cold tomato soup which stood, untouched on it. That made it a full three days since Dean had eaten anything at all.

Gazing down on his suffering friend, Castiel felt a deep and terrible sadness. He reached forward, and tenderly brushed a few stray strands of damp hair from Dean's sweat-soaked brow, setting a cool, folded washcloth there to offer some relief against the burning fever. Dean's closed eyes, ringed with charcoal grey smudges flickered as he registered the chill of the cloth against his deathly pale skin, with only the vivid flush of fever across his cheeks lending any colour to his gaunt face.

Even through their ordeals in purgatory, Dean had never looked as sick as this.

xxxxx

Castiel knew that he could heal Dean. It should have been well within his newly-restored powers to do so, and he had, in fact, tried on several occasions. But the angel now knew, that without his brother, Dean was lost; stricken and rudderless. He was empty.

Dean didn't respond to Castiel's divine power because he didn't want to be healed.

Castiel now knew there was one thing that even an angel of the lord couldn't mend.

A broken heart.

xxxxx

Sam lay on his bed, staring at the freshly painted ceiling of his new home. On the floor next to his bed, Heidi's own bed sat unoccupied as she had very quickly decided that Sam's chest was a far more comfortable resting place, and he made no move to shift her, enjoying the close warmth and companionship.

He allowed his eyes to drift out of focus, his fingertips absently teasing the dog's ears as she sprawled heavily over him, snuffling softly into the crook of his neck, and he huffed out a long sigh.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be; he was supposed to be moving on, but he missed Dean so much, the words didn't exist to describe the emptiness that ate away at him. The hole left by Dean's absence was a physical pain; a constant burning hot tightness in his chest that stole his breath, never allowing him to forget what was missing from his life, never allowing him to see any hope of escape from his grief.

Right about now, a few days before Christmas, is when the big kid inside Dean would start getting antsy about turkey and trimmings, fantasising about ideal gifts (Sam never thought he'd miss the annual discussion about the two-week vacation in Hawaii with the Brazillian Netball team), drinking eggnog until he puked and wanting to find some scraggy shrub in the middle of nowhere to haul back to their motel room, decorate with empty beer cans and candy wrappers, and pretend it was a Christmas tree.

Reaching up to touch his cheek, Sam suddenly realised his face was wet, and as the realisation hit, his fragile strength crumbled. His shoulders began to heave as deep, breathless sobs racked his body.

Suddenly disturbed, Heidi whined softly and reached up to lick the salty trail down his face, offering comfort in the only way she knew how.

Finally managing to compose himself, Sam sniffled miserably and wiped his nose across the back of his hand. "Hey girl, we're a right pair, aren't we, huh?" he murmured, stroking Heidi's head, taking comfort in the soft brown eyes which watched him dolefully.

Suddenly he could see everything with a new clarity. He knew that getting over Dean wasn't going to be as simple as he'd hoped it would be

And then he knew exactly what he had to do.

xxxxx


	7. Chapter 7

Castiel slipped an arm behind Dean's back, horrified by the damp heat that had already moistened the fabric of Dean's recently changed T shirt, and eased the stricken hunter up enough to press a glass of water to his lips, softly coaxing him to drink. His brow furrowed as his friend managed only a single sip before spluttering his way breathlessly into yet another coughing fit.

The angel was in utter conflict. He knew he should have taken Dean to a hospital long before now, despite Dean's vocal protestations, but he had been relying on the return of his grace to restore his friend's health. The shock of failing had left Castiel perplexed – and frightened.

He had waited so long, Dean was so terribly sick and needed more than Castiel could give him, he needed a hospital, and so it had come down to a simple decision: stay here and allow Dean to die, or force Dean to hospital against his will, where he would in all likelihood survive and be condemned to a life of loneliness and grief without his brother.

Castiel sighed, and his hand strayed to the top of Dean's head, slender fingers threading through the damp hair there; even if he decided to take Dean to a hospital, how to get him there? He had no idea how long it would take help to reach them out here in the forest, and Dean was now far too weak to endure the physical strain of apparating – probably had been since his return from purgatory Castiel reflected, so what to do?

Letting out another long sigh, Castiel cursed the existence that had left him totally incapable of making decisions for himself.

xxxxx

Sam thanked his boss enthusiastically, and wishing her a happy Christmas, walked out of the shelter with Heidi trotting happily along beside him, attached to his heel like his own shadow.

The woman watched him go. He'd been a godsend since he'd been here; worked like a Trojan virtually every day and asked for nothing but a basic wage in return.

She didn't know much about his background; she guessed it hadn't been an easy one, considering how he'd appeared out of nowhere with no papers, no home, and no employment history; just a car, and a duffel of threadbare clothes to his name.

There was a deep and inscrutable sadness swirling in those friendly brown eyes, an air of tragic mystery surrounding the tall stranger, but despite everything she couldn't argue with what she saw; a good brain, a work ethic that any employer would kill for, the strength of Hercules – great for lifting those damn hay bales, and an undeniable love of animals.

So she couldn't refuse him this favour; a few days off over Christmas to 'clear his head over some family business'.

If a few days off to do just that meant he came back to her as productive as ever, she would gladly give it.

xxxxx

Castiel had made his decision. Seeing his friend so frail, suffering so badly, he realised it wasn't really a decision at all.

He would take Dean to the hospital. If Dean survived the transport, the hospital may be able to help him, in which case he would probably never forgive the angel. If he didn't, then his unhappiness was mercifully over.

Blue eyes glistening with the unfamiliar moisture of tears, he reached forward to touch Dean's forehead, but he froze midway as he heard a the growl of a familiar engine pulling up outside the cabin.

The soft click of a key in the latch was all it needed for Castiel to leap to his feet, squaring his insubstantial frame to shield Dean from the unexpected interloper who stood framed in the doorway.

His face froze in mute shock.

"Sam?"

"Cas?"

Heidi looked into the room at the stiff backed stranger and her tail curled down beneath her body. She cowered backwards, whining quietly and wrapping herself around Sam's legs.

It was then Sam's eyes latched onto the couch behind Castiel, and the motionless figure stretched out on it.

"Dean?"

Rushing to the couch, he almost lifted Castiel bodily out of his way in the process and dropped his knees, gathering his brother into his arms.

"Dean, hey Dean …"

His face paled when he felt the febrile heat pouring from Dean's boneless body.

"What's wrong with him?" he snapped, glaring up at the angel who stood beside him, wringing his hands miserably.

"He was injured when we were trying to escape from purgatory, and the injury became infected; it settled on his lungs."

"Purgatory?"Sam looked up to Castiel, eyes wide with horror; "you were in Purgatory?"

Castiel nodded. "I have been trying to heal him but my grace cannot help him. He does not wish to be helped."

Purgatory. Sam could scarcely bear to think of the word; Dean and Castiel had been suffering in Purgatory for this whole time, and he had just walked away. He had given up on them. A wave of fury coursed through him; how could he have been so short sighted?

But anger wasn't going to help Dean, and that knowledge forced him to calm down. He would have time to beat himself up later, but for now Dean was his priority, and Dean needed him calm and strong. His jaw clenched in fierce determination as he promised himself that he wouldn't make the same mistake again. Not now, not ever; he would never give up on Dean again.

He gathered Dean in closer, softly patting his face, desperate for a respose. "Why doesn't he want you to help him?" He looked up at the intense sadness which dimmed the angel's usually vivid blue eyes.

"He searched for you from the time we returned; he thought of nothing else," Castiel explained hesitantly; "but when he realised we had no way of finding you, he simply lost the will to live. I could not help him, so I was just going to take him to the hospital – he would hate me for doing it though."

Sam's eyes welled as he stared up at Castiel, then back down at his brother; "I didn't know where you'd gone," he explained quietly; "I tried for almost a year to find Dean, and failed at every turn. In the end, I came to a decision, I could move on, or just spend my entire life looking for someone I couldn't find; didn't even know if he was dead or alive, so I did what I guessed Dean would have wanted me to do, and I moved on."

A tear trickled down his face as he took in a deep breath; "but I didn't," he sighed, kneading the back of Dean's neck; "I couldn't move on. In the end I just decided to come here for Christmas because it was a place we spent time together, I wanted to feel closer to him."

He brushed a palm over Dean's forehead, listening to each harsh, shallow breath that Dean's body fought to take in.

"Hey man," he leaned close into Dean so that he was whispering directly into his ear; "it's me; you jerk, open your eyes, c'mon man look at me."

The response wasn't instant, but through Sam's patient cajoling, it was only moments before Dean's fever-glazed eyes fluttered open. Unseeing at first, they fixed onto his face and Sam immediately knew the moment that recognition flooded into them.

Dean's mouth opened slightly and formed a word, although his stifled lungs could produce no sound.

The word was, "Sam."

xxxxx


	8. Chapter 8

Dean felt the weight of a ton of concrete on his chest, crushing and squeezing every last breath out of him, making his head float nauseously and causing his drifting, greying vision to dim around the edges.

He knew he'd pretty much reached the end of the road, and he was cool with that. Cas' had done his best, and Dean really appreciated his efforts, he really did; but a life lived without his brother was no life at all; simply an existence, and one that Dean had neither the strength or the spirit to endure. Having lost everyone else he ever cared about except for Cas', to lose Sam was just the final straw. He'd given up.

Everything hurt. It hurt to breathe, to move; even to think. But hey, he figured this is what it's like when you're facing the final curtain; at least it was a darn sight more peaceful than the last time he'd bit it.

Then there were the fever dreams. Sam's face right there – guiding him towards the light, and good old Cas' too, looking down on him with those sad, sad eyes and that constipated frown. But on the plus side, not too many people had a real live angel to send them on their way – it was kinda cool in a shitty sort of way.

He felt a deep cough rumbling in his chest, and his whole body convulsed with the force of it, tears trickling down his burning face from the strain. Sam's arms, strong and warm, held him tight, making him feel safe and secure, oh, and Sam's voice too; a million miles away; echoing through his fading mind.

As hallucinations go, Dean thought, it could have been a helluva lot worse.

Although he wasn't quite sure where the dog came into the equation …

Long fingers carded through his hair, and it was nice, so nice; those fingers belonged to someone who really cared; someone who wanted to help, someone who knew about that little spot at the back of his neck that made him go all droopy. Could he not die, just for a moment? He really wanted to stick around and enjoy this bliss a little while longer.

That voice again; Sam's voice repeating his name over and over, soft as a melody. It was ordering him to open his eyes; damnit, Sam always was a bossy bitch.

Then there was that smell; familiar and comforting. Dean wanted to inhale that scent forever, to wrap it around him like a blanket and curl up in it; a hint of coffee on warm breath, the faintest musk of perspiration, a musty note of poorly-aired cotton, all of them combined with a trace of sweetly citrus cheap cologne.

It was the scent of Sam - and it was the one thing that dragged Dean out of his dream.

xxxxx

As Dean mouthed his brother's name, Sam could barely form a coherent response; "Hey Dean; s'me … that's right," he coaxed gently, desperate to keep Dean with him.

He turned to Castiel who stood watching them intently; "Cas', do your thing; get him to a hospital … NOW!"

Behind him, Heidi, sensing her master's very real distress, shivered and whined miserably.

Curiously canting his head, Castiel studied the brothers' exchange intently. "Keep talking Sam," he murmured quietly; "keep talking."

Sam stared at him uncertainly for a moment before turning back to Dean, taking his brother's hand in his own and gathering him in even closer as if that were possible.

"Dean, it's me," he whispered; "I need you to believe that because I know that's the only way you're going to get better, and I'm sorry. I made the worst error of judgement ever in my entire life; and that's in a long and stupid history of errors of judgement, and I hate myself for it and I need you to tell me that you know I'm here. I need to you forgive me for being so freakin' stupid, I need …" Sam's head dipped, and his voice tailed off, no longer able to form the words.

It was at that point that Castiel felt it; so faint at first, a softly shimmering golden light; Dean's spirit growing stronger and stronger, warmer and warmer until it burned furious and incandescent, hot as the sun, filing the dark void that Dean had become with light and hope and joy.

Rushing forward, the angel nudged Sam aside and planted a flat hand firmly on Dean's chest.

A hazy glow radiated from the contact and as Castiel poured his grace into Dean's frail body, it slowly filled the room, becoming brighter and harsher; forcing Sam to recoil, shielding his eyes from it's vivid glare. Heidi scurried under the table, plastering herself flat against Sam's back in fear.

Dean convulsed violently, as the curative energy tore around his body, mending and healing; but Castiel held firm, his palm pressed hard against Dean's heaving chest, his touch never faltering despite the hunter's pained thrashing. Gazing calmly through the blinding white incandescence that surrounded him, he stood and watched in silent satisfaction as the dark shadows beneath Dean's closed eyes faded away, and the grotesque fever flush staining his otherwise bloodless face paled with them to be replaced by the warm golden sheen of a complexion glowing with health.

Eventually, the angel stepped back, satisfied as Dean's eyes snapped open, the glassy pain behind them dissolving almost immediately into sparkling life and energy, even as Dean slumped boneless into the bed, panting as if he had run for his life.

Shaking like a leaf and half-blinded, Sam stumbled across the room and reached forward, pulling Dean back into a suffocating hug.

"Man," he gasped, voice shaking with shock and emotion; "I thought I'd lost you."

Suddenly, there came a skitter of claws across the floor and a slim streak of black and tan leapt onto the coach, worming and wriggling like a hairy eel between the two men.

Heidi's most precious person in the whole world was hugging someone else and she wasn't involved. That so wasn't how things worked. Ever.

Eventually, Dean pulled back from Sam.

"Sam," he croaked, glancing down at mass of brown fur plastered against him; "why am I wearing a dog?"

"Uh yeah," Sam swiped a hand over his eyes as he stifled a laugh; "that's Heidi."

"Heidi?"

Sam ruffled the dog's head; "Hey girl, this is Dean, he's my brother and he loves dogs just like I do."

Stepping back, he folded his arms casually and watched as Heidi went to work greeting Dean with her own individual brand of love, long pink tongue exploring his entire face despite his irritable squirming, and arm waving vocal protests.

Grinning broadly as Heidi climbed adoringly over her new friend, Sam reached back to squeeze Castiel's shoulder in a discreet but genuine gesture of thanks.

The angel nodded his response, but his returned smile was as broad as Sam's.

xxxxx

_Christmas Eve_

The frosty early morning sunlight filtered through the windows, as the Winchesters savoured their first coffee of the day. A soft smile crossed Sam's face as he glanced under the table at Heidi, who was curled up, dozing contentedly. Yawning widely, he rolled his shoulders to stretch the kinks of a night sleeping in an understuffed armchair out of his spine, and poured a generous stream of cream into his coffee.

"Well, baby bro'," Dean smiled, his volume fully restored along with his health; "we're all set for a rockin' great Christmas."

He glanced casually around the table; "we've got you, the trenchcoat king here, and my baby parked outside," he grinned and looked down, playfully nudging Heidi with the toe of his boot; "oh yeah, an' we've got the walkin' carpet down there."

Draining his coffee, he licked his lips in satisfaction; "so I reckon seein' as you're earning an honest wage now, you need to take your ass down into town later and get us some proper Christmas chow; turkey, cranberry sauce, the full works; maybe you can even get some crackers - never know, you might find some new jokes to impress the chicks with."

Sam effected a fierce glare over his coffee mug.

"Hey, later I'll head into the forest and find us a tree," Dean added, his face glowing with excitement. "Sammy, get some of that coloured construction paper while you're out; we can make some cool stuff to decorate it with."

Turning to Castiel, a wicked smirk played across his face as he wrestled Castiel into a playful headlock, completing the manoeuvre with an energetic noogie; "hey look, we've already got an angel for the top of it!"

Releasing the bemused angel, Dean sat back and smiled at his brother, his friend and Heidi.

Purgatory be damned; this was going to be the best Christmas ever.

xxxxx

end


End file.
